At the Post Office
The old post office marble
stands stained beneath each
service window, smudged
from countless customers
leaning in to push packaged
gifts or business parcels or
love letters across, the body
outline below each counter
of a curiously like contour—
the median, it must be, of our
variety—each silhouette also
the same mournful brown as if
mirroring the scarcely felt yet
soul-ingraining costs of all our
small, everyday, permanent
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